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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26440969">Pixie</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/begaydocrime/pseuds/begaydocrime'>begaydocrime</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anti-Fascism, Fascism, Punk, Sex Work, Superheroes, camboy, no beta we die like men</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:08:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,494</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26440969</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/begaydocrime/pseuds/begaydocrime</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A work-in-progress story (it may be revised, rewritten, or abandoned) about a city recovering from a fascist, authoritarian ruler. It centers on Lukas Reed, a compsci college student who spends his night as Pixie, the punk "superhero" (without any super powers) who patrols the night, forcing Darrim City to reckon with its recent fascist history, and bringing those who enabled it to justice. Pixie just also happens to be the hottest camboy in Darrim City. And rather than keeping those identities separate, Pixie delights in mixing them.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Pixie</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Calling this an in-progress work is generous. I had the idea for Pixie, a camming super hero who leans into his fans' fetishizations of him (it helps that it pays his tuition). It seemed like it would be interesting to play with a public persona, like a superhero, who was also anonymous, and mix that with an intimate but anonymous but also public and performative camming persona. I wanted to make him punk, because that seemed fun. It occurred to me that he could be responding to the period right after fascism's official reign ends, when all the people who enabled and took part in the systems that led to it tried to go back to normal and were welcomed back into polite society. And that also seemed like a fun thing to explore. So here we are.</p>
<p>I would like to give Pixie a boyfriend at some point. I have no idea who, or what their relationship dynamic will be, or when.</p>
<p>I also have no idea if this is a thing I'll continue with or not. I just had the idea, sat down and wrote out this chapter, and posted it. I'll add more and expand on it if it turns out people like it, or if I have more ideas or want to explore more of this character and world, I guess.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lukas grinned at the camera, smiling impishly. “And now for everyone’s favorite part of the evening,” he teased, carefully adjusting the studded, spiked black leather mask sitting over his eyes. “It’s time to pick out my patrol outfit.”</p>
<p>He stood up, making sure the audience got a good view of his ass in the skimpy jockstrap he had stripped down to, and reached off camera. “If we can rack up fifty dollars in tips in the next five minutes, I’ll go out in this tonight,” he promised, holding up a tank top, black as night, with his kissy lips symbol on it in white. “Seventy-five,” he said, “gets you all this.” He dropped the tank top, and held a black crop top with his symbol in gray on it over his naked chest. He could hear the chimes of tips rolling in, but didn’t bother checking the total just yet. “And if you can manage a hundred and fifty dollars,” he added, "you get this.” He tossed aside the crop top and slid a sleeveless open vest on, leaving it unbuttoned. The chimes were picking up the pace. He risked a glance, and noted he had gotten over a hundred dollars in tips just while he was outlining the rewards. He grinned. “Y’all are too kind,” he said, letting his drawl come on strong. “Tell you what, as a treat…” he turned his back to the camera, rummaging around on the desk behind him, making sure the camera got a nice angle on his ass. “If y’all can make it to, say, two hundred and fifty dollars–no, it’s cold out, call it three hundred–by the time I finish applying this, it’s the only top I’ll wear tonight.” he promised, holding up a stick-on temporary tattoo of his symbol, in black. He shrugged out of the vest, dumped some water on the shirt he had discarded early in the stream, and started applying it at a jaunty angle, right above his hip, halfway between his hip and abs. As he waited for it to adhere properly, he could tell by the chimes alone he was going to need a blanket when he got home later that night.</p>
<p>“Y’all are really feeling generous tonight, huh?” he teased, addressing his audience again. He had made three hundred and fifty dollars in the last few minutes. “And we haven’t even gotten to the pants yet.” A few anticipatory chimes greeted him. He checked the chat, which was scrolling by at light-speed. “No,” he grinned, “I can’t just go out in the jockstrap.” He stuck his tongue out. “If I do, people might start committing crimes, hoping I’ll show up.”</p>
<hr/>
<p>Several hours later, and quite a bit richer, Lukas stepped out of his apartment building. He wore an old pair of ripped black jeans, a red pair of high-tops, and a worn-out denim jacket covered in patches. A yellow canvas backpack, also adorned with patches, was slung over his shoulder, containing his patrol uniform and equipment for the night. He nodded to his neighbor, Mr. Houlihan, who always seemed nice, but tired, as they passed each other in the doorway. He stepped out into Darrim City and felt the cool night breeze on his face. <em>I’m gonna freeze</em>, he thought, and began a casual search for an abandoned back alley to change in.</p>
<p>Sitting on the edge of a skyscraper, later that night, he took an obligatory selfie and uploaded it, proving to his supporters he had made good on the promised attire: no shirt, a tiny pair of leather shorts that most wouldn’t even consider boxers with “Pixie” stamped across the ass, and a pair of heavy black boots. The mask from his stream was back across his eyes, though whether it was for the aesthetic or the anonymity, he couldn’t really say anymore. The skyscraper was definitely for the aesthetic; his fans didn’t want to see a hot college student strip for them, they wanted to see a hot <em>superhero</em> strip for them. He needed to be unattainable, living a life they could only fantasize about. It didn’t matter that a skyscraper was a shitty place to patrol from–what’s he gonna see from up here?–posting selfies from rooftops is what his fans demanded, so it’s what he gave them.</p>
<p>That done, he stood up, dropped his tiny leather shorts to his ankles, and sat dangling his legs off the roof again. The vision of his shorts slipping over his boots and blowing to the ground sprung into his mind uninvited, and he made sure to tilt his feet up, making the most awkward backpack retrieval imaginable impossible. He took his dick in his hand, pumping it a few times to get hard, and took another selfie, dick in hand. This one he didn’t upload; he’d hold on to it to sell later.</p>
<hr/>
<p>It was a quiet night. <em>The local fash must be busy.</em> As he walked the streets, with strangers avoiding his gaze, though some looked at him with outright hostility, and a few even looked happy to see him, he kept 90% of his attention on his surroundings, and 10% on his phone, scrolling through his feed. Nothing stood out, nothing flashy going on. That was fine with Lukas. As he passed a bar, something caught his eye. He backtracked a few steps, and found himself standing in front of a large poster, emblazoned with the face of General Harper. “ALWAYS OUR GENERAL”, it said in large, block font. He could hear people inside the bar, but nobody was out on the street this late. He pulled a telescoping rod off his right boot and expanded it with a <em>schnick</em>, but paused on the backswing, considering a sudden inspiration. He grinned, and lowered the rod, turning back to his phone. “You all got lucky tonight,” he typed, “because I’m putting on a second live show. Just because I love you that much. My private room, five minutes.” He hit send, posting it out to his feed, and set up the event on his streaming app. He set the entry fee at twenty five dollars, a modest price–small enough to be accessible to most, but high enough to promise something good, he hoped. He leaned against the bar’s window as he waited, watching the stream’s viewer count climb. Seven minutes later, he figured he’d kept them waiting long enough. He hit he button to go live, holding the phone at arm’s length.</p>
<p>“Hello, my lovelies,” he greeted his audience, “do I have a treat for you tonight. You see,” he swiveled so the poster was behind him, “it seems I found some proud bootlickers here in Darrim City.” He turned and looked at the poster. “Now I’m not art critic, but I feel like this piece is missing something.” He propped the phone up on the window ledge, so it had a good view, and dropped his tiny little shorts down to his knees. He took his dick in his hand, and began slowly stroking it. “Now, our dear General may have been dethroned months ago,” he said, addressing the camera, “but it seems like some miss the fascist shithead.” He closed his eyes, moaning a bit. Really, he was dividing his attention between his impromptu speech and finding the thoughts that got him all riled up, just like he did on stream. “It doesn’t matter that he preyed on the most vulnerable among us,” he continued, making sure his voice was nice and breathy, “it doesn’t matter that he was utterly inept at governing,” he started to feel something, and latched on to the thought, following it, “and it doesn’t matter that he stole from his country to line his own pockets.” He could feel the pressure building in him, and tweaked his pace to make sure the timing was right. “He gave them license to be bigots, to be greedy, to be selfish, to be cruel.” His hand was pumping faster and faster. “And to all these fascist collaborators, I have a message for you.” With a groan, he came hard, shooting his load across the General’s face on the poster. He grinned at the camera, spent. “Pixie’s coming for you.” He winked, and hit the stop stream button. He pulled his shorts back up, then grabbed his phone and got a selfie in front of the cum dripping down the General’s face, two fingers up in a victory pose, making his trademark kissy face. He sent it to his feed, so everyone would know what they missed out on, and securely slid his phone into the pocket on the inside of his boot, specially tailored for it. Propaganda (and income) taken care of, he pulled the telescoping rod back out, and sent the tip of it whistling through the window, right through the General’s forehead.</p>
<p>“Oh boooys,” he called through the window, “I’ve got some boots you can lick.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Is it obvious I have no idea how much a camboy gets tipped? I took a wild-ass guess because researching it seemed like work.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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